Elayra sighed heavily. She held the bottle up carefully, delicately, as if afraid even looking at it too hard would shatter it.
	“King’s Curative. Supposedly, the only thing it can’t cure is death. Takes a [i]lot[/i] of magic to make.” She looked to Drust. “Don’t you think we should save it?”
	“You were knocked out, girl. You may have a concussion.” He glanced to Ghent and took the bundle of jerky the boy had returned. “We can't risk its side effects.”
	“I feel fine… [i]Mostly[/i] fine,” she amended grudgingly, sure the first lie would not go well. “It'd be a waste.”
	Drust snorted as he tossed the bundle into the depths of his still open pack. It disappeared inside, devoured by the enchanted fabric.
	“Then stand.” The man rose swiftly to his feet, his expression hard.
	Elayra blinked up at him. Craning her neck to keep an eye on his face nearly made her dizzy and her neck ache. She had expected some sort of rejection, but the demand to stand was not a part of it. She glanced to his katana, thankful he had not grabbed it. But that meant little.
	Heart pounding a bit faster, Elayra carefully set her water skin and the King’s Curative aside. Keeping a wary eye on him, she forced her aching legs to move as quickly as they would let her.
	She gasped when the movement made the throb in her head worsen and spread. Her world spun and she nearly lost her balance, the clearing going momentarily fuzzy around the edges.
	Drust reached out to steady her with a firm, but gentle—for him, at least—hand. He watched her sit back down, the girl scowling.
	“Two drops.” This time, the order sounded less severe. He returned to his own indentation in the grass beside the fire.
	The argument drained out of her. He had made his point. She retrieved the discarded items. Not wanting to look at either of her companions as she gave in, she focused on removing the inkwell’s dropper stopper. She put two careful drops into her water skin, then snugly restoppered it. It did not look any emptier than before.
	“Daejinn,” Drust began, his attention returning to Ghent, “are Spiritayian cats. Born of the spirit realm. They have more free rein in our physical world. Compared to most other Spiritayians.” 
	“They… make deals," Elayra began quietly, staring down at her water skin. “The stronger ones can do about anything, but…” She took a breath. Her voice came even softer as she continued, the sounds of the fire threatening to drown it out. “Their services always come at a price.”
	Her grip tightened on her water skin. She shoved the cork back into it and shook it to mix in the King’s Curative. She sighed, realizing it was barely half full.